Rubato
by Scooter Kitty
Summary: While investigating a supposed suicide, Nick uncovers more than he expected. PostPotTR. Warning: chapter 4 contains mature sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: this story takes place post-Pirates of the Third Reich, season 6. It was written in response to a challenge of sorts by Kristen999. I don't think this is exactly what she had in mind, but well, it isn't exactly what I originally had in mind, either. I had a devil of a time getting the original outline to come together to my satisfaction, so I scrapped the entire thing and started over. This is what I managed to salvage.

Anyway, I am aware that it took me so long to get my act together that Kristen decided to write a story of her own (after all, if you want something done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself ; ) ). As I have not yet had a chance to read her story, I have no idea if we're covering the same territory. If we are, it was purely unintentional. Hope you enjoy.

7/21/06

RUBATO

_A musical term. It is an important characteristic of the Romantic Period. It is a style where the strict tempo is temporarily abandoned for a more emotional tone._

Chapter 1

Hauling his kit out of the back of the SUV, Nick headed into the large, white stucco apartment building. Inside the lobby, he discovered that the building's only two elevators were both out of commission. Glancing at the sheet of paper in his hand, he saw that the apartment he was looking for was on the seventh floor.

Great, he thought sourly, I get to schlep this heavy case up seven flights of stairs. Normally a little additional physical activity was not an issue for the Texan, but tonight he was already exhausted. It was after midnight and he was well into his third shift of the past two days, and there didn't seem to be an end in sight.

The city of Las Vegas seemed to be in the grip of some mini crime spree. All three CSI shifts had been kept hopping for the past several days and all three shifts were spread thin. Nick knew this was the only reason he had been sent to this crime scene alone. Well, that, and the DB was a probable suicide, most likely a cut and dried case, nothing potentially dangerous, or interesting.

Finding the correct apartment, Nick found the door ajar and he entered. Det. Curtis stood in the middle of the living room, notebook in hand, speaking to a small, nervous-looking woman in her 50's. The woman jumped slightly when Nick entered. He smiled at her reassuringly and looked around, waiting for a break in the detective's interview to speak to her.

"You were saying, Mrs. Cabot?" Sophia prompted.

"Oh, yes, Jenna was such a sweet girl," the woman said, returning her attention to the blonde detective. "She always had time to have cup of tea with an old lady, like me, and tell me about her day. Not too many young people today would be that kind. I don't know what it was exactly that she did for a living, but she always paid the rent on time... I don't like to speak out of turn, because she was such a sweet girl and all, but well, she went out a lot, with a lot of different men, if you know what I mean..."

"You mean she was a hooker?" Sophia asked bluntly.

"Well, you make it sound so tawdry," the woman said, with an indignant, little sniff. "I mean, the men she was with were always very well dressed and they must have paid her well. This place is not cheap."

"You do know that prostitution is illegal in all of Clark County and if you suspected she was a prostitute, you were legally obligated to report her?"

"Well, I didn't know for sure. I mean, if she was, she was very discreet," the landlady said quickly. "And I certainly wasn't going to ask her!"

With a slight roll of her eyes, Sophia let this go and turned to address the newly arrived CSI. "Hey, Nick."

"Hey, Sophia," he returned.

"The body's in the bathroom, Jenna Carlyle, 25, probable suicide. David Phillips is in there right now."

"Okay, I'll talk to him."

The white-and-blue-tiled bathroom was large and kept immaculately clean, except for the deep red water staining the inside of the bathtub. The girl's skin was a waxy white color and contrasted strongly with the dark water in which she lay. Her open, staring, dark eyes looked huge in the harsh overhead light. Yet, even despite the unnatural pallor of her skin, she had a very pretty face, not exactly beautiful, but very sweet. She looked like the proverbial girl next door, like the ones who always plagued his dreams when he was a teenager.

"Hey, Nick."

David Phillips' voice broke through Nick's preoccupied thoughts and brought him back to the present. The Texan nodded his own greeting. He had barely even been aware of the other man, kneeling beside the tub. Now, the medical examiner gestured to one of the girl's arms, which was extended out past the rim of the tub. The slim, white wrist bore a long, ugly gash which ran vertically up her forearm.

"She wasn't messing around," David commented. "Most people slash their wrists horizontally, across the vein. You bleed out slower that way and there's a higher survival rate. When you cut vertically like this, along the vein, you bleed out a lot quicker, very low survival rate. She must've really wanted to die."

Nick nodded absently at this news. Glancing around the large room, he saw no sign of a razor, knife, or other cutting implement. "What did she cut herself with?" he asked.

"I don't know. I didn't see anything. Maybe it fell into the water," David said, gesturing to the opaque, red water.

Heading back into the apartment, Nick interrupted Sophia's interview, asking, "Who found the body?"

"That would be Mrs. Cabot, here, the landlady," the detective answered.

Nick introduced himself to the woman and asked if she had seen a razor or something of that nature when she first found the body.

"No, not that I recall. I hadn't seen Jenna all day, which was rather unusual. We almost always have tea together in the afternoons, our own little tea time... Anyway, I came to check on her and found the door unlocked, which is also unusual. She was always very good about keeping her door locked. Anyway, when I found her and I saw all that bloody water, I just left and called the police... I just don't understand it. This is so unlike her. She's not suicidal. She was always such a positive person..."

"Thank you, Mrs. Cabot," the dark-haired CSI said gently.

As he was about to turn and head back to the bathroom, Nick almost stumbled over a small, furry, white shape at his feet. Bending down, he picked the little cat up. It was quite small, more of a half-grown kitten than a true cat. Its fur was white, with small patches of gray and orange, and it had very large, yellow-green eyes that seemed entirely too big for such a small head. It also had no tail, just a short, fur-covered stump, about an inch and a half long. It purred loudly and strained its head up to rub its face against his chin.

"Did this cat belong to the vic-, uh, Jenna?" Nick asked Mrs. Cabot.

"Oh, yes, I don't remember its name."

"Well, did you want to take it?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh, I'm very allergic to cats and I don't know that Jenna had any family or friends who might want it. Just take it to the pound."

"Right," Nick mumbled, disappointed.

He set the cat back down and returned to the bathroom. While he had been talking to the landlady, David's assistants had arrived with a body board. They had gotten the girl out of the water and had laid her out on the board in an open black, body bag. David was kneeling beside the body, taking her liver temperature.

Glancing up at Nick, the M.E. said, "91 degrees. She's been dead for roughly six or seven hours, although the water temperature could have affected this."

Nick nodded and watched impassively as David and his assistants zipped up the bag and began strapping the body to the wooden board. With the elevators unavailable, it would be easier to carry the body down the seven flights of stairs on the board rather than a gurney. Nick quickly stepped out of their way as the three men started out of the apartment. Having let Mrs. Cabot return to her own apartment, Sophia came to stand beside the CSI and they watched the Coroner's crew leave together.

"So, what do you think?" the detective asked, once she and Nick were alone in the apartment.

"I don't think it was suicide," he said softly.

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know, gut feeling. You heard the landlady, Jenna was a positive person. And she didn't make any arrangements for someone to take care of her cat. She had to have known that Mrs. Cabot couldn't take it. Wouldn't a responsible pet owner have found a home for it?"

"Well, you're assuming that she was a responsible pet owner and not finding a home for your pet isn't exactly an indication of murder. Suicides aren't necessarily pre-planned. There were no signs of forced entry and there doesn't appear to be any blood anywhere in the apartment except the bathroom. There doesn't appear to be any sign of a struggle. What are you saying, Nick, that she just let someone slit her wrists and then just sat there quietly in the tub and bled out?"

"No, I'm not saying that at all. There are ways that someone, especially someone she knew and trusted, could have quickly and quietly subdued her, without a struggle."

"True," the detective admitted, "but let's face it, this girl doesn't seem to have had anyone serious in her life. Her only friend seems to have been her landlady, who's twice her age, and, well, she was a hooker. How much self-respect can a person have when they make their living by selling themselves to the highest bidder?"

"Oh, right, she was a hooker, therefore she couldn't possibly have had any self-respect or a healthy outlook on life. She couldn't possibly have been able to live with herself," Nick said, his voice bitter.

Belatedly remembering that he had been involved with Kristy Hopkins, the dead prostitute that Day Shift had investigated several years back, Sophia immediately regretted her callous words. She quickly tried to backpedal, saying, "That's not what I meant..."

"Oh, that's exactly what you meant."

Sophia was saved from having to respond to this statement, by the sound of her cell phone ringing. Gesturing for Nick to wait a moment, she stepped a few feet away from him and answered the phone. She returned to him again after only a few minutes.

"That was Capt. Brass. Apparently there's another crime scene he needs me to check out. I don't know what's been going on in this city these past few days... Anyway, I've got to go. Are you going to be alright if I leave you here alone? There is a uniform out in the hallway."

Still miffed at the detective for her insensitive remark, his answer was curt. "Yeah, I'll be fine. After all, it's just a suicide, right?"

"Right," Sophia said, uncomfortably. "Look, I'll see you back at the lab later."

The Texan nodded, but said nothing, having already dismissed the detective from his mind. He turned to look at the apartment, trying to get a feel for the woman who had so recently inhabited it. Only vaguely aware of Sophia's departure, Nick began wandering around the apartment. He didn't touch anything, although he had taken the precaution of pulling on a pair of latex gloves. For now, he just looked, trying to get to know the woman who had been Jenna Carlyle.

Like the bathroom, the rest of the apartment was neat and clean, but not sterile-looking, like a showroom. Jenna was obviously a woman who liked things to be in their place. Nick could relate to that. He kept his own little house quite tidy. Of course, he didn't spend all that much time in it.

Most of the apartment was decorated in soothing shades of blues and greens, with accents of dark brown, to add warmth. Tasteful artwork hung on the walls. A small wicker basket with several cat toys sat in a corner of the living room. Several bookshelves sat along one wall. They were filled with oversized art books, books on the lives of classical composers, and several historical novels. Pretty high brow stuff for a hooker, Nick thought, feeling slightly vindicated. It was all very homey and slightly eerie.

In the tiny kitchen area, he saw a small food bowl and water dish for the cat, sitting on the floor on a vinyl placemat, both were empty. The little cat, which had been following him as he'd wandered around the living room, now moved to sit beside its bowls. It looked up at him expectantly and emitted a high, squeaking sound. This struck a chord with the CSI. If the woman had suddenly decided to kill herself on the spur of the moment, and couldn't find a home for her cat, wouldn't she have, at least, left extra food and water for it? How could she know how long it would be before her body was discovered?

Looking through the few cabinets, he quickly located a bag of dry cat food, the expensive kind that only comes from pet stores. He poured a generous amount into the bowl and filled the water dish from the kitchen sink. The cat immediately attacked the food bowl and began eating ravenously. It had obviously been several hours since it had eaten last.

On the kitchen counter, he found a cell phone, which he turned on and accessed the recent incoming calls. There was nothing. Either Jenna had erased those numbers or she hadn't had any calls for several days. If she was a hooker, the latter was unlikely. She must have erased her incoming calls promptly, a wise thing for a prostitute to do. He checked on the numbers she had saved. There was only one and she had only distinguished the number with the letter 'D'. Nick pressed the send button.

The phone rang a few times then was rerouted to a generic voice mail account, no name was given. Declining to leave a message, Nick turned the phone off and bagged it. Seeing a cordless phone, with a built-in answering machine, he noted that there were no messages.

Continuing with his wandering, he found a spare room, which Jenna seemed to have used as a work space. There was a small, antique secretary, upon which sat an open laptop. In another corner was a wooden chair with an ornate, wooden music stand beside it. A violin case lay open on the chair, the highly polished instrument tucked securely in the red velvet lining. Music scores were neatly stacked on the floor around the chair. Moving to look at the sheets currently sitting on the stand, Nick saw that they were hand written. Jenna Carlyle had written her own music.

Glancing up at the wall, he saw something white in a frame. Moving closer, he recognized it as a diploma, from Juilliard. How many Las Vegas hookers graduated from Juilliard? Beneath the diploma, on a small side table, sat a personal cassette player with headphones. Kind of old school, Nick thought, but he picked it up and opened it. Removing the cassette tape, he found that it was home made. The hand written label simply listed a date and the words 'Flamingo Studios'.

Returning the tape to the player, he slipped the headphones onto his head and pressed the play button. The beautiful strains of a single violin filled his ears, singing, soaring and exquisitely haunted. Nick was by no means an expert on classical music, but even he could tell that Jenna Carlyle had been a very talented musician. Leaving the headphones on and clipping the player onto his belt, he continued his wanderings, allowing the girl's own violin to provide a soundtrack to his investigation.

The room also contained an art easel and a couple of unfinished canvases. The painting which Jenna had obviously been working on most recently was of the little cat, shown curled up asleep on a red pillow. The technique was a little crude, but displayed a burgeoning talent, not that Nick recognized any of this, he simply found the painting appealing, in a non-threatening sort of way. Leaning against the wall nearby was another work in progress, although this was little more than a preliminary sketch. It seemed to be a portrait of a man. Unfortunately the man's features were only very roughly drawn in. Was this someone whom Jenna had known? Was this evidence that there actually had been someone in her life?

In the bedroom, he found the double bed neatly made. An old pillowcase had been spread out on the far side. It was liberally coated with cat hair. Apparently this was where the little cat liked to sleep. Pulling the bedspread back, Nick examined the pillows for stray hairs. On the nearest side, he found several long, dark strands, obviously Jenna's. On the far side, he found a couple of much shorter, lighter-colored hairs, a man's? He took tape lifts of both hair types.

Retrieving the hand-held, ALS light, with its attached red plastic viewer, from his kit, he returned to the bedroom and pulled the blankets off the bed. Shining the light onto the mattress, he quickly spotted the tell-tale whitish stain on the sheet. A quick test confirmed it was semen. A man had definitely been in this apartment. He bagged the sheet.

Returning to the living room, Nick stood looking around him. With the sound of Jenna's hauntingly beautiful violin music filling his head, he felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. The incomplete paintings and music told him that Jenna Carlyle was a woman who had had things to finish in her life. He also didn't believe that she would have simply abandoned the little cat, which was obviously the center of her world. No, he did not, could not, believe that Jenna Carlyle had taken her own life.

In his mind, he could picture Jenna inhabiting this homey, little apartment. He could see her sitting on the couch reading, the cat in her lap or sitting behind the music stand, playing her violin, her pretty face transformed by her concentration on the music, or standing before the art easel with her little, furry model sitting at her feet.

With a sigh, he returned to his SUV, where he retrieved several large buckets. Bringing these back to the apartment, he began the tedious task of emptying the bloody water from the bathtub by hand. An hour later, he had filled the buckets, emptied the tub, and there was still no sign of whatever had been used to cut Jenna's wrists.

Checking the cabinet below the sink, Nick found nothing but cleaning products and extra toilet paper rolls. Opening the mirror-fronted medicine cabinet, he found an assortment of over-the-counter drugs, basic first-aid supplies, and a man's razor. Examining this closer, he found that it was fully intact and therefore couldn't have been used to make the cuts on Jenna's wrists, but he bagged it anyway. It was more evidence that a man had been in this apartment at some time.

Spying a small, plastic wastebasket in the far corner, next to the cat's litter pan, he picked it up and sifted through it with his gloved hand. There, at the bottom, beneath several used tissues and Q-Tips, was a bloody razor blade. Carefully removing this, he placed it in a paper bindle. Glancing back at the tub, he saw that there was a good five feet between it and the wastebasket, but there were no blood drops connecting them. So, how did she get from the wastebasket to the tub, or vice versa, without leaving a bloody trail?

And why would she have bothered to throw the razor blade away anyway? Yes, the girl was a neat freak, but that was going a bit far. And why was it at the bottom of the wastebasket? It looked an awful lot, to Nick, like someone had tried to hide it. Why would Jenna have done that?

After thoroughly dusting the bathroom for prints, Nick's investigation was complete. He returned to the spare room, where he disconnected the laptop and slid it into a large, plastic bag. Turning off the cassette player he had still been listening to, he removed it from his belt and took the headphones off. He was about to return it to its place on the side table, when he changed his mind and removed the tape. He slid the tape into a pocket of his loose, olive drab trousers and put the cassette player on the table.

Taking the laptop, he returned to the living room. With the help of the uniformed officer, he began lugging his collected evidence down the stairs to the SUV. It took them several trips to transport all the now-full buckets.

"Is this it?" the young officer asked while they were loading up the last of the evidence. "Do you still need me to stick around?"

It was almost morning now and the sky was just starting to lighten to a gray dawn. "Yeah, go ahead and take off," Nick said with a wave of his hand. "I just got to go back upstairs and make sure the apartment is sealed up, but you don't need to stick around for that."

"Cool! Thanks, Nick, I'll see you later."

"Sure, see ya, Tony."

Climbing the stairs one last time, Nick looked around the apartment, making sure that he hadn't overlooked anything. As he was about to close the door, his eyes fell on the little cat, who was sitting, watching him with those huge, yellow-green eyes. He had forgotten all about the cat. The animal shelters wouldn't be open yet and he wasn't sure what to do.

Standing, it moved toward him and made that little squeaky sound again. The little nub of tail was wagging endearingly and, with a soft groan, Nick made up his mind. Going back into the apartment, he grabbed the cat's litter pan and the bag of food. Scooping up the cat, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Pausing to place an official police seal over the crack of the door, he headed down to his vehicle, with the cat tucked under one arm. He made a detour to his house on the way back to the lab.

"Don't you dare trash my house," he told the cat sternly as he was leaving. It, of course, just stared at him enigmatically.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

After dropping his scant evidence off at the appropriate labs, Nick proceeded to the morgue, to check on Doc Robbins' progress with the body. This turned out to be very little. The coroner apologetically explained that he had been under the impression that Nick's case was a clear cut suicide and had therefore placed higher priority on his other cases.

"Yeah, well, there were a few inconsistencies at the girl's apartment that lead me to believe that it may not have been suicide," Nick said.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm still not going to be able to get to her any time soon," Robbins said. "But I did do a quick preliminary on her when she first got here. Hang on, let me check my notes."

Moving to a small stack of files on a nearby counter, the pathologist began rifling through them. "It's been a hell of a week," he said conversationally. "I haven't even had a chance to file any of this paperwork... Ah, here we are... Okay, according to these notes, I didn't see any signs of trauma other than the cuts on the wrists, so it's doubtful that a full autopsy is going to contradict the initial COD of exsanguination... I'm sorry, Nick, but the best I can do for you right now, is give you the fingerprints I collected from her and send a blood sample to Tox and a tissue sample to DNA."

"If you could that, that'd be great, thanks, Doc," Nick said, accepting the sheet of fingerprints.

"No problem and I'll let you know if I turn up anything unusual when I do get to her."

Heading back to the lab, Nick parked himself in front of a computer, in a quiet corner, and ran Jenna Carlyle's fingerprints through AFIS. He quickly got a hit and found an arrest record for her, for prostitution, only about six months old. The charges had apparently later been thrown out of court on a minor technicality. He found nothing else.

Gathering the other prints he'd collected from the bathroom, he ran them as well. The only viable ones he'd collected were all Jenna's. He'd found plenty of partials, but he got no matches on them. He sighed heavily, no joy here.

Turning his attention to the laptop he'd taken from her apartment, he powered it up and began looking through the files. He quickly found a tax-preparation program and found Jenna's old tax returns, which she had saved to her hard drive. Pulling these up, he was able to get an idea of her recent employment history. There were only two returns saved.

The oldest was from two years ago. It listed a W-2 form from the Las Vegas Philharmonic Orchestra, but this was for only part of the year. Another W-2 was listed for the remainder of the year. This form was from Lady Heather's Domain. With a sigh, Nick leaned back in his chair and stared at the computer screen. He wondered if he should tell Grissom about this unexpected connection. But then a small, malicious voice in his head asked, why should I? Grissom didn't tell me about the tape from the nursery.

His disgruntled thoughts were interrupted as Sophia entered the lab, looking slightly frazzled. "Ah, here you are. I've been looking all over for you. What did you find at the apartment?"

He told her about the bloody razor blade, as well as the man's razor, the short, light hairs on the pillow, and the semen stain in the bed.

"Okay, so maybe she had a boyfriend, or a very steady client," Sophia said pointedly. "Either way, that doesn't mean that she didn't kill herself. People in relationships kill themselves all the time."

"Then why was the razor blade in the wastebasket? What, she put it there after slitting her wrists? And took the time to bury it under all those tissues, while she was bleeding out? There was no blood in the wastebasket and there were no blood drops between the tub and the wastebasket. Whether she cut herself at the wastebasket or the tub, she would've been bleeding heavily. There would have been some blood on the floor. Unless, someone else cut her while she was already in the tub and threw the blade away on their way out the door."

"Well, maybe she threw the blade from the tub and it landed in the wastebasket and slipped to the bottom."

"From her position relative to the wastebasket, that would have been one hell of a toss," Nick said. "No, there was someone else in that bathroom."

"Did you find anyone else's prints on the tub or anywhere in the bathroom?"

"...No," the CSI admitted reluctantly. "I got a lot of partials, but the killer could've been wearing gloves."

"Yeah, and she could've killed herself."

"Sophia, there are just too many things that don't add up!"

"What things? You want to cry murder just because the razor blade isn't where you think it should be?"

Hearing their raised voices as he was walking past the lab, Grissom stopped and entered. "What's going on, here?" he demanded.

"Nothing, Nick and I are just having a disagreement about our case," Sophia said.

"What are you disagreeing about? I thought it was a suicide."

"I don't think it is," Nick said. "I think it might be murder."

"Based on what?"

Nick repeated his theory about the inconsistent placement of the razor blade and the evidence that there had been a man in the apartment. "It seems to me that we should, at least, try to find out who this guy is and question him," the Texan concluded.

Grissom nodded non-commitally at this information then turned to the detective. "Sophia?"

The blonde gave a slight shrug. "Okay, I admit that the razor blade thing is inconsistent, but not enough to contradict everything else. I've got the sheriff breathing down my neck to get on with my other cases. We have more than enough evidence to declare this case a suicide. Now, I'm sorry, Nick, but I just don't think a misplaced razor blade is enough to warrant expending the time and manpower in further investigation, especially when we've got so many other cases that clearly do deserve our attention."

"Do you have any other evidence to back up your theory?" Grissom asked Nick.

"Yeah, my instincts. Her landlady said that she wasn't the type of girl to kill herself. And she had a cat. If she knew she was going to kill herself, she would have made arrangements for the cat. She didn't. She didn't even leave it extra food."

"You're basing this theory on a cat!" Sophia said incredulously.

"And you just don't want to waste your time on another dead hooker!" Nick snapped. "Ecklie would be so proud!"

"Nick, that's enough!" Grissom barked sharply. After a moment, in which everyone got their respective tempers under control, the entomologist asked, "You put some evidence through to the DNA lab, correct?"

"Yes," Nick said tightly.

"Alright, we'll see what your evidence shows us and I'll make my decision about this case then. In the meantime, I want you to go to the garage and help Sara process the car from her case."

"You would've backed Sara, Warrick or Catherine up on this," Nick said softly. "After all these years, you still don't trust my instincts, do you?"

"That's not true, Nick," Grissom said, in the same tone.

"Yeah, yeah, it is."

With a slight shake of his head, the Texan turned and left the lab. After he'd gone, the entomologist heaved a heavy sigh and placed his palms on the desk in front of him, leaning forward slightly. There were days when just dealing with the human element taxed him far more than anything physical he encountered in his job. Why couldn't every human being be born, equipped with his own personalized user's manual? It would make life so much easier.

"Why are you doing this?" Sophia asked.

"Doing what?"

"Humoring Nick like this. It's not going to help him get over the Mullins Case."

Grissom turned to face the detective fully, his expression confused.

"Look, it's obvious that he's having trouble dealing with Kelly Gordon's death, and it's perfectly understandable that he would. You think you're helping him by telling him that you'll consider letting him stay on this case, but you're not helping him. He's only setting himself up for disappointment. Why don't you just try talking to him?"

"And what am I supposed to say?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"So, I heard about your case..." Sara began hesitantly. She was working in the front seat of the cherry red Lincoln Navigator, dusting the steering wheel and dashboard for fingerprints. Nick was in the back seat with the ALS, going over the leather seats. When he didn't respond to her comment, she continued, "Look, I understand that you feel guilty that you weren't able to help your friend Kristy, but that doesn't obligate you to try and avenge every dead prostitute."

"I'm not trying to 'avenge' anyone," Nick responded irritably. "I'm just trying to find out who killed her, just like I would do for any other victim."

"Nick, I know it's sometimes hard to accept, but people do kill themselves. You can't always save people from themselves and you didn't even know this girl. She wasn't your responsibility to save."

With a sigh, Nick removed the red plastic glasses he had been wearing and set them aside, turning to face the other CSI. "I know that, Sara. I don't need the lecture. I'm not trying to save anyone. Jenna Carlyle was murdered. I'm just trying to do my job and find out who killed her. Maybe you should just mind your own business."

"Look, I'm just trying to help-."

"I don't need your help, Sara! I just need to be allowed to do my damn job!"

"Nick!"

Hearing Grissom's voice calling to him, the Texan heaved another sigh. Great, now what? Why was it that everyone was jumping on his case, but he seemed to be the only one getting his ass chewed out? Climbing out of the vehicle, Nick turned to look at his supervisor, fully expecting another tongue lashing.

"Go home, Nick," Grissom said softly, his voice almost gentle now. "I didn't realize that you've been here for almost 48 hours. You've got to be exhausted. Go home and get some sleep."

With an almost numb nod, Nick pulled his gloves off and left the garage. Ten minutes later found him sitting in his SUV, watching the darkness gathering on the horizon. Grissom was right. He should go home. He was exhausted. But as he started his vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot, he didn't head toward his house, he headed toward Lady Heather's Domain. If he was going to get any answers about Jenna Carlyle's death, he needed to talk to someone who knew her in life.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

7/22/06

RUBATO

Chapter 2

It was approaching full darkness, by the time Nick pulled into the driveway of the big Victorian house that served as Lady Heather's Domain. But the lot was empty and the big house was almost completely dark, despite the lateness of the hour. Even the porch light was dark.

Knowing the intense loss the woman had suffered so recently, Nick wondered if the lovely dominatrix had sold her house and business and had left the city. He also wondered if she had been forced to close her business as part of some plea bargain with the D.A., to avoid jail time for her attack on Johann Sneller, the man who had brutally murdered her daughter. It was with some hesitation that he knocked on the front door. After a moment, the porch light came on and the door opened.

Heather Kessler stood in the doorway, looking very different from the woman he had last seen a little over a month ago. But in Nick's mind, she had never looked more beautiful. She had set aside her usual tight, revealing, black dresses and was wearing a pair of well-cut jeans and an oversized gray sweater. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose braid and she was wearing only minimal make-up. It was quite obvious that she was not entertaining clients this evening. Still, she smiled when she recognized him and she remembered his name.

"Mr. Stokes, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" she asked, ever the graceful hostess.

"Uh, I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about a young woman who used to work for you, Jenna Carlyle?"

"Jenna Carlyle...," Heather repeated the name musingly. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. Yes, please, come in, Mr. Stokes."

She stood aside and gestured for him to enter, which he did. The foyer he stepped into was heavily shadowed and the big house was almost eerily quiet.

"Why don't we retire to the four-seasons room?" she suggested. "It's at the back of the house. It's very pleasant there this time of night... I was just about to have a beer. Would you care to join me?"

Nick gave a slight shrug. "I'm technically off the clock. Sure, why not? Thank you."

She led him through the dark house, to a large room, with an impressive row of tall, narrow windows. As it was still early spring, the windows were closed. A warm fire was going in the fireplace and, along with several lit candles, it provided the only light in the room.

Leaving him to make himself comfortable on the overstuffed couch, which faced the bank of windows, Heather disappeared to get their drinks. She returned a few minutes later and handed Nick an ice cold bottle of Guinness. She settled on the couch beside him with her own bottle and they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, just sipping their beers and looking at the lights of the city beyond the windows.

"La-, uh, Ms. Kessler, I just wanted to say that I'm very sorry for your loss," Nick said sincerely, breaking the long silence.

"Thank you."

"So, have you closed the business?" he asked, hooking a thumb back toward the main part of house behind them. "Did you have to make a deal with the D.A.?"

"No, I didn't. After Mr. Grissom showed the D.A. photographs of Zoe's mutilated body, he decided not to prosecute me for my attack on Sneller. Apparently the D.A. agreed that my actions were justifiable. But ever since that incident, I seem to have... lost my way. I can't seem to be with a client now without seeing Sneller's face and feeling that blood lust again. I don't trust myself to be with clients anymore. But I've found that I can't stand the sound of the screams anymore either. They conjure up too many uncomfortable images. I've closed the business indefinitely."

Her voice was quite calm and composed while she'd spoken of these things, staring out at the city. But abruptly she turned to face Nick and her eyes glittered fiercely in the candlelight with rigidly suppressed rage.

"You understand what I'm talking about, don't you, Mr. Stokes?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Yes," she repeated. "I saw the news reports last year. I know what happened to you. You understand how I feel, why I did what I did."

"Yeah, I think I do."

"He didn't," she said, turning her face back to the windows again. "If he had truly understood, he wouldn't have stopped me." There was no need for her to explain who 'he' was. Nick knew precisely who she was referring to. "There was a time when I thought he understood me, but apparently he never really did."

"There's a lot he doesn't understand."

She turned to face Nick again and a sort of silent communication passed between them. "He's disappointed you as well, hasn't he?"

This time, it was Nick who looked away. "Well, I suppose I've disappointed him. So, I guess it's mutual."

"I imagine that most people disappoint him. Who could possibly live up to his standards? But, God, what a lonely existence..."

With slight shake of her head and soft smile, she said, "I'm sorry, I've gotten off track. You came to speak to me about Jenna Carlyle?"

"Uh, yes, she was found dead in her apartment early this morning. I understand she used to work for you."

"Yes, briefly, for only about a year. She was a submissive, but I didn't think she was truly... suited for the business. Eventually, I had to let her go, for her own safety."

"What do you mean?"

"She could sometimes become too 'clingy', too passive, which can be dangerous in this business. It generally only happened with a certain type of client, older men, in positions of power, but it happened often enough that I finally had to take steps."

"Do you think she was suicidal?"

Heather considered the question for a moment before answering. "She was sometimes desperate for approval, particularly from the clients which I've already described, but suicidal? No, she was generally a very positive person and a very talented musician."

"Yes, I heard a tape of her playing. She came to Vegas to play for the Philharmonic Orchestra. Do you happen to know why she left so abruptly and after only a few months?"

"She was having an affair with the married conductor of the orchestra. His wife found out. I did mention that Jenna had a weakness for older men in power... There's something you must understand about Jenna, Mr. Stokes. She told me once that when she was a child, she was repeatedly sexually molested by her father, who was a judge.

"When a child is sexualized at an early age, they often grow up feeling that their only worth in life, is as a sexual object. I believe that's why Jenna could never hold a job as a musician. She never felt that she was good enough, no matter how much praise she received. It also explains why she sought jobs in the sex business, as well as her weakness for certain clients."

With her naturally keen observation skills and her uncanny intuition, Heather had seen the way Nick had abruptly dropped his gaze and shifted uncomfortably on the couch while she had spoken of the dead girl's past. Heather laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You were sexually molested as a child, Mr. Stokes?"

The thick veil of long, concealing, dark lashes lifted as Nick raised his eyes to meet hers and, for a moment, she saw the old pain in those eyes, confirming her suspicions, before he quickly looked away again. He cleared his throat loudly and said, "Uh, I found evidence to suggest that there had been a man in her apartment. Would you happen to know if Jenna had a boyfriend or if she entertained clients in her home?"

Deciding to let her question remain unanswered for the time being, Heather said, "I very much doubt she entertained clients in her home. Very few prostitutes would. It's generally not safe for clients to know where you live. She wasn't a foolish girl. As for a boyfriend, I'm afraid I wouldn't know. I hadn't seen her for several months."

"Your clients know where you live," Nick couldn't help pointing out.

"Yes, but none of my clients would dare to invade my privacy," Heather said, with the barest hint of a smile and a slight edge to her voice.

"No, ma'am, I suppose not... So, do you know if Jenna was particularly close to anyone? I mean, did she have a good friend here at your Domain, that you know of? I'd really like to speak to someone who was close to her."

"Hmm, I don't recall her being especially friendly with anyone while she worked here. And we didn't exactly stay in touch after she left, but I can make a few inquiries. The Las Vegas sex scene is a surprisingly small and intimate one, especially for those of us working in the... higher economic range. We all tend to know each other, or of each other at least. Even those of us who manage to say on the 'right' side of the law. For instance... I knew Kristy Hopkins and I know what you did for her."

"You knew Kristy?"

"I didn't know her well, but yes, I knew her. And what you did for her was very generous. Not many men would have made such a gesture for a dead whore."

"Kristy wasn't a whore!" Nick said quickly. "She was just going through a..."

"A rough patch?" Heather finished for him, one fine eyebrow elegantly arched. "No, Mr. Stokes, you're right, she wasn't a whore. That's an ugly word which implies a complete lack of self-respect. And Kristy had plenty of self-respect, but make no mistake, Mr. Stokes, she was no tarnished angel, either. She was a very beautiful, manipulative, ambitious woman, who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get what she wanted. And that included you."

Nick looked up at these words, but said nothing.

"After all, what prostitute wouldn't want a friend in the police department? No, you're not a cop, but close enough. She would have used you, Mr. Stokes, shamelessly."

Now Nick looked away, frowning, his cheeks a slight shade warmer. Heather pressed a forefinger under his chin and tilted his face back towards her again.

"Now, that doesn't mean that she wouldn't have enjoyed every, single minute of using you...," the woman said, her voice low and sultry.

After a moment of this intense eye contact, Nick burst out laughing, his cheek now flaming. Clearing his throat again, he said, "Uh, getting back to Jenna..."

"Oh, yes," Heather said, smiling as well. "As I said, I'll make a few inquiries. I'll let you know if I find anyone."

"Thank you, I'd appreciate that. Oh, uh, did Jenna happen to leave anything behind after she left your employ? I don't know, an address book or something? I'm reaching, I know."

"A little, black book, perhaps? Hmm, I don't recall her leaving anything," Heather said thoughtfully. "But let me check. Come with me."

They both stood and she led him back through the house, toward the large kitchen. Just off from the kitchen was a large room, with shelves lining all four of the walls. The room had probably originally been designed to be used as a pantry. But as Lady Heather obviously didn't spend much time cooking, she used it as a storage room.

The shelves were overflowing with an odd assortment of items, from a somewhat rusty metal sprinkler head, to an enormous, hot pink dildo, roughly the length and width of Nick's forearm. The investigator picked up the soft, foam latex monster and examined it with a wide-eyed and slightly pained expression.

"That's basically just for show," Heather said, with a smile.

"I should hope so," the Texan said and returned it to its shelf.

"This is my junk closet of sorts," Heather explained, turning to examine the shelves. "Anything I don't want to throw away, but don't have a place for, ends up here... Hmm, I'm not finding anything..."

Nick, however, wasn't listening. His attention was currently consumed by a small, red and gold, lacquered mask he had found on the shelf just below the dildo. The mask was in the shape of an elaborate Asian dragon's face, complete with snarling snout and fangs. But the mask was entirely too small to be worn over the face of an adult, and probably most children, and there were no holes at the eyes, only one large, round hole at the mouth. Holding the mask out from his face, Nick wondered how you were supposed to see out of the thing and who, exactly, was intended to wear it, an infant?"

"That doesn't go over your face," Heather said helpfully, her expression carefully neutral.

The investigator looked at her in confusion for a moment, before the truth clicked into place. Nick looked at the mask and its one, large hole then glanced down at his crotch. "Oh!" he gasped and quickly set the mask aside, his cheeks burning.

Heather was smiling openly now. "Do my toys make you uncomfortable, Mr. Stokes?" she asked in a teasing voice.

"No, ma'am, I just don't really see the point of them. I mean, if a man and a woman are really into each other, why would they need all this?" he asked, gesturing to the 'toys'.

"A good question, but what if they aren't 'really into each other' anymore? Sometimes the toys can make all the difference, save a failing relationship."

"I suppose, but it seems to me that if you have to go to these kinds of lengths just to get some excitement back into your relationship, maybe it's time to just call it quits."

"You have such a simple outlook on the world..." she said softly, but seeing the flash of irritation in his eyes, added quickly, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to sound condescending. Truly, I find it refreshing. So many of the men who come here are already so jaded and damaged, it's rare to find a man who's comfortable enough in his own skin that he doesn't require any... special handling."

The two stood looking at each other for a long moment, before Nick finally said, "Uh, I should probably get going. It's getting late and I've taken up enough of your time. Thank you for your help, and the beer."

"You made me smile tonight, Mr. Stokes. I haven't done that in a very long time. Thank you."

"Sure, any time."

She walked him to the front door. They both paused for a moment in the open doorway, just looking at each other, suddenly awkward. Abruptly, Heather reached out and brushed the heavy fall of hair off his forehead.

"I like the longer hair," she said. "It's always nice for a girl to have something to run her fingers through. Good night, Mr. Stokes, feel free to stop by for a beer any time you like."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walking through the door of his house, Nick found the little cat waiting for him. It sat glaring at him, as though reprimanding him for his tardiness, the little stub of tail twitching in irritation.

There had always been plenty of stray cats running around his parents' ranch when Nick was a kid. As they killed the mice that lived in the barn and the rabbits that burrowed in the fields, they were tolerated and even encouraged to stay. Nick remembered that his sisters had often gone to great lengths to try and tame the half-wild kittens and had given them all names.

But Nick had never been much interested in the kittens. Sure, they were cute and all, in a lethal kind of way, but he had always preferred dogs. Now, he remembered why. Dogs never looked like they were judging you. They just happily accepted whatever you gave them. Cats, on the other hand, always seemed to have... expectations.

"What?" he snapped irritably at the little cat.

His question seemed to dispel its little pique with him and apparently he was instantly forgiven. With a squeak, it came forward to begin contentedly rubbing its face against his ankle, purring loudly. With an exasperated sigh, Nick bent down and scooped the cat up and carried it to the kitchen, to get something for both of them to eat (not the same something).

Later, he was lying, sprawled out on the couch, watching some black and white movie, with entirely too much talking and not nearly enough action. He was half dozing and the little cat was curled up on his chest, sleeping blissfully and he had to admit that he did find its warm, little weight rather comforting. You couldn't do this with a dog, well, not a real dog anyway. And in Nick's mind those little, two-pound, fashion accessories, so currently popular with the anorexic Hollywood starlets, definitely did not qualify as 'real' dogs.

When he finally went to bed an hour later, the little cat trotted along behind him. It spent the night quite comfortably, asleep on the empty side of his double bed.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The next evening, as Nick was coming in to the lab for the night, he stopped by the front desk to pick up his messages. The secretary, Judy, handed him a large, inter-departmental mail envelope. Opening it, he saw that it was the toxicology report for Jenna Carlyle.

This report showed that her blood had tested positive for Valium and in a fairly high dose. It wasn't a high enough dose to have killed her, but it was definitely high enough to have incapacitated her. Granted this didn't prove that she was murdered. She could have taken the Valium herself, to ease her death. Or her killer could have used it to subdue her. It would explain why there was no sign of a struggle. And Nick hadn't found any prescription bottles in Jenna's apartment.

"Stokes!"

Nick stopped in the hall and turned to see Conrad Ecklie standing in the doorway of his office. The assistant director of the lab gestured for Nick to approach him.

"A word with you, please," he said soberly.

The Texan gave a silent, inward groan as he started back the way he'd just come. Great, just the person I want to see at the start of my shift, he thought, irritated. Entering Ecklie's office, Nick sat down in one of the two chairs that sat across from the big desk.

Ecklie took his own seat behind the desk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop. "I just got off the phone with the sheriff..."

The AD paused for a moment, as though waiting for the other man to be impressed or show some interest. When his words were met with only a blank stare, Ecklie continued, "The sheriff is concerned about Graveyard's current backlog of cases. He's especially concerned that perhaps you're spending too much time on cases that should already be closed. Why is the Carlyle Case still open? It's a suicide, close the case and move on."

"With all due respect, Conrad, I disagree. I don't think it is a suicide," Nick said.

"And why do you say that?"

"There are a few things that I don't think add up. I don't think we can say anything definite about this case yet. I haven't even gotten back most of the results from the evidence I put through the labs. I did get the tox report back, which showed that Je- the victim had Valium in her system. I didn't find any prescription bottles in the apartment."

"She could have gotten the drug illegally on the street."

"Right, 'cause if she's turning tricks, she must be doing illegal drugs, too," Nick said, a note of challenge in his voice.

Ecklie wisely chose to ignore the bait. "I talked to Sophia. She said she didn't see anything that led her to believe that it was anything but a suicide."

"You talked to Sophia without me?"

"Look, Nick, I appreciate and admire your dedication to your job," Ecklie said, his tone blatantly insincere. "But a good CSI recognizes when a case is exactly what it appears to be. Not every case is a puzzle. Sometimes we catch a break and it's open and shut. When we come across these cases, we should go with the evidence and not create unnecessary work for ourselves."

"Yes, sir, I understand that, but I don't think this is one of those cases."

"Well, be that as it may, the sheriff, and I, disagree. The case is closed, end of discussion. Now, go and meet with your supervisor. I've already explained the situation to Grissom. He should have a new case for you."

Without another word, Nick stood and left the office. As he was passing the DNA lab, on his way to Grissom's office, he was stopped again. This time, it was Wendy who called out to him. He stopped and entered the lab.

"I've got the results from your blood tests," the brunette said, handing him a manila folder. "The blood on the razor blade, as well as the blood in the bath water, was all Jenna Carlyle's, no surprise there. The part where it gets interesting is the male DNA. The skin cells on the man's razor, the hairs from the bed and the semen from the bed, all came from the same man. I had a little extra time, so I ran his profile through CODIS. I got a hit."

Opening the folder, Nick found the CODIS printout right on top. He looked back up at Wendy. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"Yeah, I ran it twice. It seems that His Honor sowed a few wild oats in his college days. Most people don't realize it, but public nudity is considered a sexual offense. DNA samples are automatically collected upon arrest."

Looking down at the folder, he read the name again, Judge Daniel Markham. He was a county appellate judge. Nick had been in the man's courtroom before. Nick knew that the man was married. He also knew, as most everyone in Vegas did, that he was heavily campaigning for the gubernatorial race in November. Having it discovered that he'd been sleeping with a hooker, especially a now-dead hooker, would not look good for that campaign. Even if he was innocent and never formally charged, the untimely and unseemly investigation alone, would most likely cost him the election.

"Well, I guess this explains why the sheriff just ordered Ecklie to declare the case a suicide and close it," Nick said.

"Yep, that would about do it," Wendy agreed.

"Were you able to salvage any viable prints from the razor blade?"

"I managed to save on, but it was a partial, so I don't know how truly viable it was. I sent it over to the print lab."

"Good, thanks, Wendy."

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

7/29/06

RUBATO

Chapter 3

"So, are you gonna give me the silent treatment all night or are you gonna tell me what's got your panties in such a twist?" Warrick asked, looking over at Nick, who was spraying the kitchen sink of their crime scene with luminol, looking for blood.

"What?" the Texan asked, looking up. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had only been peripherally aware that his fellow CSI had asked him a question.

"Dude, what's going on with you? You've been a space cadet all night."

"Oh, nothing, I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Really?" Warrick asked dryly. "So, does your preoccupation have anything to do with that case of yours that the sheriff pulled the plug on?"

"Yeah," Nick admitted with a sigh.

"Did he tell you why he was pulling the plug?"

"He didn't tell me anything. Ecklie told me and no, he didn't say why, but I have a pretty good idea."

"Yeah?"

"Uh, I can't really discuss it."

"Oh, that's how it is, huh?"

"Look, Rick, I'm not trying to blow you off. It's better that you don't know anyway."

The taller man narrowed his unique, green eyes and said, "Are you about to do something stupid, Nick?"

"Possibly."

Warrick sighed. "Nick, the girl's dead. You don't owe her anything."

"Don't I? Don't we owe it to every victim, to try our damnedest to bring their killer to justice?"

"Within reason, yes, but you don't owe it to any of them to commit professional suicide. If the sheriff stepped in and closed your case, that is a pretty good indication that your suspect is someone pretty high up the food chain. Nick, you can't help future victims, if your career's already destroyed. Do you even have enough evidence to make a case against this guy, whoever he is?"

"No, but if I'd been allowed to do my job, I might've been able to get it."

"Did you talk to Grissom about it?" Warrick asked.

"No, I'm not convinced that he'd take me seriously, besides he's immersed in his own case and you know how he gets when he's got a puzzle to solve."

"Yeah, tunnel vision. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I just want to talk to the guy, look him in the eye. I'll know if he killed her or not. I just want him to know that I know and I'm watching."

"You're playing with fire, Nick." Warrick said softly, with a shake of his head.

"Yeah, well, someone's got to do it."

"You want me to come with you?"

"No, but thanks, there's no sense in both of us ruining our careers... So, you believe me, that Jenna Carlyle's death was a homicide and not a suicide?"

"Hey, I trust your judgment. If you say it was a homicide, I believe you. I wasn't there. I can't contradict you."

Nick sighed. "Thanks, man," he said softly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Later, very early that morning, when Nick and Warrick returned to the lab after processing their crime scene, Nick volunteered to personally drop their collected fingerprints off at the print lab. As he walked into the lab, he was relieved to find that Jacqui was working that night and she was alone in the lab.

"Hey, Jacqui, did you happen to get a look at that partial print that Wendy sent over for the Carlyle Case?" he asked.

"Uh, well, I started to work on it, but Ecklie said the case was closed, so I gave up on it."

Nick gave a silent groan. What, did Ecklie personally go around to every lab and tell all the techs not to process Nick's stuff for the Carlyle Case? It had only been pure luck that Wendy had found Nick to report her findings before Ecklie had found her.

"Were you able to get a match on the print?" Nick asked.

"It was pretty badly smeared. I tried cleaning the smudges up, but I wasn't really getting anywhere. And no, I didn't get a match. It was only a partial."

"If I gave you a name, do you think you could run a comparison for me?"

"Are you sure this person's prints are going to be in the system?"

"Oh, yeah, he's a judge. They're in the system."

"A judge? Are you going to get me fired, Nick?"

"Ecklie won't know anything about this and if he does find out. I will take responsibility for everything. Please, Jacqui..."

The woman groaned. Soft, earnest, brown eyes like those should be illegal, she thought to herself. "Okay, what's the name?" she asked.

"Daniel Markham."

"Judge Markham, the one who's running for governor?"

"Yeah."

Oh, yeah, those eyes should definitely be illegal, Jacqui concluded as she reluctantly typed the name into the computer. Seconds later the judge's file popped up on her screen and she pulled up his prints. Pulling up the print from the Carlyle Case that she'd already scanned into the computer, she compared the prints. What little there was of the partial, perfectly matched Markham's right thumbprint.

"It's a match," Nick said softly.

"It won't hold up in court," Jacqui cautioned. "There's just not enough of a print here. There aren't enough points in common."

"But what we do have, matches up perfectly."

"I agree, in my professional opinion, this is a match. But my opinion won't hold up in court either. There has to be at least eight points of commonality and there just isn't enough here to get that. Legally speaking, it's not a match. I'm sorry, Nick."

He nodded. "Thanks anyway, Jacqui."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours later, Nick was headed out of the lab for the day, his mind whirling with everything he'd learned that day. He wasn't sure what to do with this information, but he felt that he should do something. As he was heading out toward the parking lot, he heard someone call his name. He stopped and turned to find Lady Heather standing on the sidewalk with Grissom.

"So, you came here to see Nick?" the Texan heard Grissom asking the woman as he approached them. Nick clearly heard the confusion in the older man's voice.

"Yes, I have something to tell him. If you'll excuse us..." she said pointedly.

"Of course, I'll just leave you two to your business," Gil said, glancing at Nick, a slight crease between his expressive brows. "It was good to see you again, Heather. I'm glad to see you looking well."

"Yes, it was good to see you, as well," she said coolly.

Nick and Grissom exchanged nods as the entomologist walked away.

"What's up?" Nick asked, after the other man was out of earshot.

"Remember, I told you that I would make inquiries about friends of Jenna Carlyle... I found someone I think you talk to. She's waiting for us at the Highball. I'll drive."

Across the parking lot, Gil Grissom watched as Lady Heather and Nick crossed to her sleek, black Jaguar and climbed inside. Seeing Nick casually toss his bag into the back seat before climbing in on the passenger side, the entomologist felt the pangs of unfamiliar emotions. He wasn't quite sure what he was feeling, but he didn't think he liked it. With a slight shake of his head, he climbed into his own vehicle.

Inside the cool gray interior of the Jaguar, Lady Heather gripped the gear shift in one well-manicured hand and manipulated the stick with the assurance of a woman long accustomed to working with precision machinery.

"She calls herself Carmine and she says that she and Jenna had been working the same clubs for a few years," Heather was saying to Nick. "They weren't exactly close, but they were friendly and they watched each other's backs when they could. I've already explained the situation to her and she's agreed to talk to you on the condition that she won't have to testify in court."

"Oh, don't worry, that won't be a problem," Nick said softly.

Heather glanced over at him, but said nothing as they were just arriving at the bar, which was located not far from the lab. She parked the car and the two headed inside. The interior of the bar was dimly lit and, at this early hour, not very crowded. But that was the beauty of Las Vegas, just about everything was open 24 hours.

As they approached the long bar, Nick saw a tall, leggy red-head sitting alone, sipping a martini. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was wearing snug jeans and a deep blue, lace-edged, satin camisole. She was no more scantily clad than most of the other women in the bar and there was nothing about her clothing which screamed 'hooker', but there was something intangible about her posture or perhaps her mannerisms that made it perfectly clear what her occupation was.

Nick claimed the empty chair at the bar beside her, while Lady Heather took the seat beside him. Leaning across the criminalist, Heather made the introductions.

"This is Nick Stokes, from the crime lab. Nick, this is Carmine."

The red-head made no move to shake Nick's hand, but he was very much aware of her blue eyes moving slowly over him. She gave him a sad, tired smile.

"So, you want to know about Jenna Carlyle?" she asked.

"Actually, I'm more interested in the man of her life."

"Oh, him." Carmine spoke the pronoun in a tone of infinite contempt. "I never actually met him, but she talked about him a lot. She never told me his name, either, but she mentioned that he was a judge once... Do you think he had something to do with her death?"

"It's possible, but for all appearances, her death was a suicide. Her wrists were slit."

"No, Jenna was a survivor. She wouldn't kill herself and definitely not by slitting her wrists. She hated the sight of blood, especially her own. And she was so much stronger than when I first met her. She was learning to stand up for herself... well, until 'he' came along, that is."

"What happened?" Nick asked quietly.

"Well, at first she just did him to get the prostitution charges against her thrown out of court, but then she started seeing him regularly and then, she went and fell in love with him. She broke the cardinal rule of prostitutes, never give it away, 'cause once you do, you'll never get it back."

"Give what away, sex?" Nick asked.

"Your heart... Anyway, he told her to stop turning tricks and she did, became totally dependant on him. I tried to tell her she was stupid, but she wouldn't listen. She was convinced that he loved her and he was going to take care of her forever.

"I saw her a couple of days ago. It seems that Judge Wonderful had suddenly up and decided that it wasn't a good idea for him to see her anymore. And just like that, he pulled the plug on her, so now she was going to have to go back out on the streets."

"I'm sure that was devastating for her," Nick said. "And yet, you still don't think she was suicidal?"

"She wasn't devastated, Mr. Stokes, she was pissed and rightly so. Like I said, she was learning to stand up for herself. She wanted to get even. I told her she should threaten to tell the wife. That usually brings them to heel. I figured she'd get a nice, fat check out of him, you know, kind of like severance pay, instead she ended up dead... It's my fault, isn't it? If I'd kept my mouth shut, maybe she'd still be alive..."

"No, it wasn't your fault," the investigator said gently. "You were just trying to help your friend."

"Thank you," the girl whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. "Are you going to get the bastard?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can," he said softly. He sincerely wished he had another answer for her, but he wasn't going to lie to her. "I just don't have enough evidence against him."

She nodded and didn't seem particularly surprised. "I understand. We tend to be realists in this business. We know our place in the grand scheme of things. And I know that it's definitely a lot lower than that of a judge. But thank you for trying, Mr. Stokes."

Nick started to reach out a hand toward the girl, but Heather stopped him with her own hand on his arm. "Thank you for your assistance, Carmine," she said to the younger woman.

The red-head nodded, but didn't look up from her drink. Heather glanced at Nick and gestured toward the door. Outside, in the brutal Nevada sunshine, Nick felt a surge of anger. He couldn't get the girl's sad face out of his mind, the way she had simply accepted the injustice of her friend's murder without complaint.

The ride back to the lab was silent. Both Nick and Heather seemed to be immersed in their own thoughts, oblivious of each other. When they reached the parking lot of the lab, Nick gave Heather a distracted thank you as he was climbing out of the car. Grabbing his bag from the back seat, he headed for his SUV.

Climbing into the vehicle and starting it up, Nick didn't head directly home. Instead, he went to the county courthouse. He climbed the wide, marble steps, to the upper floors where the judges' chambers were located and headed straight for Judge Markham's chambers. It was still early enough that the man was probably not in court yet. A pretty, young female assistant sat at a desk in the outer office. She smiled up at Nick as he entered.

"Hi, my name's Nick Stokes, I work for the Clark County Crime Lab. I'd like to speak to Judge Markham, please."

"Is this concerning a warrant? Or a case that His Honor is presiding over? Because, if it is, I'm afraid you'll have to come back later. His Honor is very busy this morning and has asked that he not be disturbed."

"Could you just tell him that I want to talk to him about Jenna Carlyle."

The girl gave him a thoughtful frown and said, "Uh, okay, just one moment."

She stood and went to the big, highly polished, darkly stained oak door at the back of the room and knocked softly before opening it and entering the room beyond. She returned a minute later.

"His Honor with see you," she said and stepped aside, so that Nick could enter the chamber.

The room was large, with a rich, oak coffered ceiling and plaster walls, painted a soft cream color. A deep brown carpet covered the floor and a black leather sofa sat off to one side. The judge sat behind his large desk and watched the young man approaching him intently.

Judge Markham was in his late forties, with a head of short, thick, sandy brown hair, heavily streaked with gray. He was a handsome man, tall, still quite fit, and with dark eyes that burned with intelligence and ambition. He gazed at the young man before him with all the arrogance and disdain he had acquired over his many years behind the bench. But the dark eyes that returned his stare did not falter.

"You have something to say to me, Mr. Stokes?"

"You killed Jenna Carlyle."

"If you had any hard proof to back that statement up, you'd have a police officer with you and a warrant for my arrest. Since you have neither, we both know your words are empty," the judge said calmly.

"No, not empty, just... not provable."

"Same difference in the legal world," Markham said smugly.

"You know, I may not have enough to prove you killed her in a court of law, but I do have enough to cast serious suspicion on you in the court of public opinion. I can certainly prove that you were sleeping with her, and now she's dead. I wonder what the media would think of all that. It would probably play havoc with those election plans of yours."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Stokes?"

"No, just stating a fact... You were going to dump Jenna. She was too high of a liability for a man aiming for the governor's mansion, wasn't she? Unfortunately, Jenna didn't want to let go. She actually loved you and mistakenly thought you really loved her. She threatened to go to your wife. And doesn't your father-on-law own hefty shares in a couple of casinos? I'm guessing that's where most of your campaign funds are coming from. That money would dry up pretty fast if the little woman were to leave you, wouldn't it?

"In that instant, Jenna crossed the line from possible political liability, to being a serious threat to the survival of your dreams. And you weren't about to let anyone stand in your way, were you? Especially not some jumped up whore, who'd tried to rise about her station."

Glancing down at the cluttered desk top, Nick reached over and picked up the object that had first caught his eye when he'd approached the big desk. It was a brown plastic prescription bottle. He turned it around to look at the label. The prescription was for Valium and it was in the judge's name. Nick turned the bottle again, to show the label to the other man.

"The coroner's report showed Valium in Jenna's system, but I didn't find any Valium in her apartment. But, look, here it is. I wonder how many are left. It looks like you just refilled it. I wonder, are there just enough missing to incapacitate a young woman? That's how you managed it, isn't it? You drugged her and then you put her in the bathtub and slit her wrists."

The judge's tanned face had gone noticeably pale. "You can't prove that. Valium is a common enough drug. You can't prove that it was the Valium from my prescription that killed her."

"No, I can't, but we both know the truth, don't we?"

"Look, Mr. Stokes, I'm sure we could work something out. After all, once I'm established in the governor's mansion, I'm going to need intelligent, resourceful men around me. And who knows what could happen after the governor's mansion. There's always the White House..."

With a sigh and a disgusted shake of his head, Nick turned and left the office.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Walking through the double, swinging metal doors into the Clark County Morgue later that night, Nick saw Doc Robbins' gray head lift to look at him.

"I seem to recall Warrick saying something about you having the night off," the coroner commented. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to have another look at Jenna Carlyle's body, if that's alright," the investigator said.

The pathologist's expression softened. "I'm sorry, I can't help you. I just released her body to the mortuary. I was told the case was closed."

"Uh, yeah, it was... mortuary? You mean someone claimed her for burial?"

Robbins nodded.

"Look, Doc, I know it's none of my business, but who claimed her? Not her father?" Nick asked.

"As far as I know there was no family to claim her. It was Heather Kessler who did. She said something about the girl having worked for her in the past."

Nick nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Thanks, Doc."

"Any time."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Heather Kessler opened her door, Nick thought she looked even more beautiful than she had when he'd seen her, only that morning. She had changed out of the simple, black dress she'd been wearing earlier and into a pair of jeans and a snug, long-sleeved, black t-shirt. She had put her auburn hair up, but several strands had worked their way loose, to fall enticingly around her face and neck.

"Uh, I hope you don't mind that I dropped by unannounced," Nick said, feeling unaccountably awkward.

"Not at all, Mr. Stokes. I did tell you that you could stop by any time you liked."

"Yeah, uh, I have something for you. Hang on a second."

Heather didn't try to hide her mystified smile as the investigator turned and walked back to his vehicle. He returned a moment later, carrying something in his arms. As he stepped into the glow of the porch light, she saw that it was a small, predominately white cat. He held the little animal out to her.

"Most men just bring flowers," she commented in amusement, as she accepted the furry little bundle.

"Oh, uh, you do like cats, don't you? And you're not allergic or anything?" he asked quickly.

She smiled. "No, I'm not allergic," she said, although silently, she wondered what he would have done if she'd said that she was. "And yes, I like cats. What dominatrix wouldn't love such maddeningly indifferent and supremely arrogant creatures? In many ways, cats are the dominatrixes of the animal world."

However, the little cat in her arms was doing everything in its power to belie this description, purring loudly and rubbing its face on Heather's chin.

"The cat originally belonged to Jenna Carlyle," Nick explained. "I was supposed to take it to one of the city animal shelters, but I just couldn't bring myself to. So, I took it home. But I'm not really a cat person and, as you can see, it's very affectionate. It needs more attention than I can give it. I'm just not home enough."

"'It'?" Heather repeated. "You didn't even bother to determine the gender?"

"Oh, uh, no..."

With a slightly exasperated sigh, the woman tipped the cat and took a discreet look. "'She'," Heather reported. "I don't suppose you gave her a name either, did you?"

"No, but I did bring the litter pan and a bag of food. They're in my car. I can go and get them."

"Later," Heather said, "Right now, why don't you come inside?"

She closed the door behind him and gestured toward the back of the house. "Why don't you head back to the four-seasons room. You remember where it is? I'll join you in a moment. I'm going to get some milk for my new friend and a beer for you?"

"Please," Nick said.

He found the cozy four-seasons room much the same as it had been the last time he'd been here. Once again, there was a fire in the fireplace and several lit candles. He did note one change in the room's appearance. Sitting on a chair in a far corner of the room was an open violin case. Moving closer for a better look, he was sure that the instrument was Jenna Carlyle's, although he wasn't sure why he thought that. He supposed one violin looked much the same as another, unless one knew what to look for, which admittedly, he did not.

"Yes, it's Jenna's."

Nick turned at the sound of the voice, to see Heather standing in the doorway of the room, holding two beer bottles. She moved closer and handed one of the bottles to him.

"How did you get it?" he asked, accepting the beer.

"When I claimed her body for burial, I also took possession of her property. I stopped by the apartment. This was the only thing of any real value and it's actually a very valuable instrument. The rest of the things I'll probably just give to charity, but this deserved special consideration."

"Do you play?"

She smiled, her expression suddenly, and unusually, self-conscious. "I used to... Oh, I was never even close to Jenna's caliber, but yes, I played. Perhaps it's time that I tried again. After all, I do have the extra time these days..." She ran her fingers lightly, almost lovingly, over the smooth, polished wood.

"God, it's such a waste that such talent was silenced and no one will ever hear it again," Heather said, her voice soft, but harsh.

"Actually, maybe it wasn't entirely silenced," Nick said, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket. He took out the tape of Jenna playing. He'd been listening to it in his car and had stuck the tape in his pocket when he'd arrived at Heather's house. "I took this from Jenna's apartment... I know I shouldn't have, but... well, I guess it belongs to you now, too."

Taking the tape from him, Heather turned and disappeared from the room. After a moment, the room was filled with the sound of the violin, emanating from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. Heather returned and the two sat on the couch for a long time, sipping their beers and listening to the beautiful strains of the violin, made all the more haunting by the knowledge that the woman who played it was now dead.

"She was murdered, wasn't she?" Heather asked in a hollow voice, finally breaking the silence between them. "It definitely wasn't suicide?"

"No, it wasn't suicide. It was murder," Nick said, his tone matching hers.

"But he's going to get away with it, isn't he?"

"Yep, I know he did it, but I can't prove it and he knows it."

"Who was he?"

"Daniel Markham, an appellate court judge."

"Yes, I know how he is."

"Well, he killed Jenna to keep her from getting in the way of his bid for the governor's office and there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

She nodded. "It's not your fault."

"I know, everyone keeps telling me that, but I still feel like I let her down."

"You did the best you could. Hell, you did more than many would have. You have nothing to feel guilty for."

"I know, but I still do."

Reaching out, Heather touched Nick's cheek and turned his face toward hers. Her dark eyes were once again fierce in the candlelight. "He won't get away with this completely. I promise you that. He killed her so that she couldn't keep him from the governor's seat. He used his position and influence to keep the investigation from going forward. Well, I'm not entirely without influence in this city. I, too, have friends in high places and I intend to see to it that Daniel Markham never sees the inside of the governor's mansion. When I'm through with him, he'll be lucky if he can keep his seat on the bench."

"Thank you," Nick whispered.

Noting that his eyes were entirely too bright in the candlelight, Heather pulled him into her arms and held him tightly, almost fiercely. Feeling his strong shoulders begin to shake slightly as he surrendered to tears, she held him even tighter, moving one hand up to cup the back of his head, her fingers sliding easily into the soft, dark hair. She continued to hold him for a long time, simply reveling in the wonderment of this man who, even after everything he'd experienced and seen in the course of his career, still had the ability and willingness to feel.

THE END


	4. Chapter 4 epilogue

8/5/06

RUBATO

EPILOGUE – A Matter of Trust

The fire in the fireplace was starting to die down. It was late. I really ought to head home, Nick thought to himself, but he was extremely comfortable, sprawled out on the couch in Heather's four-season room, with the little cat sleeping on his stomach. Heather was seated on the floor in front of the couch, going through old photo albums.

Occasionally, she would pull out a picture to show him, a smiling, gap-toothed, seven-year-old Zoe, she and her nine-year-old daughter playing dress up. Nick thought it was good that Heather could now look at the photos and remember the good times. She was beginning to let go of the bad, although Zoe's death still haunted her and probably would for the rest of her life. Nick understood this. There were just certain memories that one learned to live with, but never entirely let go of.

He and Heather had spent several evenings, here, in this cozy little room talking about both of their pasts. She was an amazingly strong woman and Nick found that strength to be the sexiest thing about her. Although there was a definite attraction between them, the relationship had, so far, remained fairly chaste. They had kissed, but even these kisses had been more tender than passionate, despite the fires smoldering just below the surface for both of them, as if they were afraid of unleashing those intense emotions.

Nick gave an experimental little stretch and the cat immediately raised her head to glare at him reproachfully, as if to say, don't even think about getting up. Heather had renamed the cat 'Pandora', for her penchant for getting into everything. So, Nick had started calling her Dora the Explorer, a reference that had been completely lost on Heather. When he had explained that Dora was the title character of a children's program, the dominatrix had simply smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with suppressed amusement.

Feeling a little defensive, Nick had said, "Well, it's the only thing on TV early in the mornings, when I get home from work. And it helps me with my Spanish..."

Heather had merely laughed and kissed him. Now, she closed her photo albums and gathered them up. Standing, she placed them on a nearby side table.

"It's getting late..." she commented, moving to the fireplace, to close the flue and the glass doors, her back still turned toward Nick.

Removing the disgruntled cat and placing her on the floor, Nick sat up and said, "Yeah, it is, I should probably get go-."

"Maybe you should spend the night," Heather said, interrupting as she turned to face him.

Nick opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. He had no idea what he wanted to say. His body was screaming, yes, yes! But his brain was still hesitant, although he wasn't sure why. Heather was wearing a pair of loose, black pants of some clingy, drapey material with a matching lace-edged camisole. Over this, she had thrown on a black, silk kimono-style robe, which she'd left unbelted. She looked amazing. So, why was he holding back?

"Do you trust me, Nick?" she asked, her voice very grave.

"Yes."

She held her hand out to him and he took it without hesitation. He stood and she led him out of the four-season room and around a corner. Opening a door, a back staircase was revealed. It was quite narrow and steep.

"This was originally the servants' stairs," she explained. "It led directly to their quarters, which were quite separate from the rest of the house. After all, the master of the house wouldn't wish to mingle with his servants, even inadvertently. When I remodeled the house, I had those rooms converted into my master bedroom suite. Ironically, I have more privacy that way."

At the top of the stairs was a short, narrow hallway, with only one door. Opening this door, Heather ushered Nick inside. The room he stepped into was quite large and open. A huge, queen-sized bed sat up against the wall, in the middle of the room, making it the focal point of the room. The walls were painted a muted, dusty mauve and the hardwood floor was covered by a very large, Persian rug, worked in deep shades of blues, reds and greens.

The room had very little furniture in it beyond the bed. There was a large, well-stuffed chair, covered in deep blue upholstery in one corner, beside the walk-in closet. A large, darkly-stained, hump-backed trunk sat at the foot of the bed and there was a built-in window seat beneath the room's only window. A few framed black and white, Helmut Newton photographs hung on the walls. A glass vase filled with white tulips sat on a small side table near the overstuffed chair.

Heather led Nick to the bed and sat him down on it. She stood in front of him and repeated her earlier question, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"You haven't been with a woman since the night you were kidnapped, have you?"

"No."

"It's been almost a year. Why haven't you?"

He looked away. "I don't know. I guess, I just do-."

"Don't feel safe?" she finished for him.

He looked up at her, but didn't speak.

Heather ran her fingertips lightly down his cheek. "I want to help you feel safe again."

Abruptly turning, she walked to the foot of the bed and pushed up the lid of the trunk. Reaching inside, she took out several items, which she concealed in the loose folds of her robe. Walking back to the bedroom door, she closed it and switched off the overhead light. The room was plunged into almost complete darkness. The only light was the faint glow from The Strip seeping in through the curtains of the lone window.

The sound of a soft crack drew Nick's attention and he could see Heather standing in the faint light of a green glowstick. She placed the stick on the nightstand beside the bed. Slowly, she walked around the room, placing more of the activated sticks as she went, until the room was filled with an eerie, green glow. Nick sat up straighter on the bed. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat and his heart rate increase, and not necessarily in a good way.

He had told Heather the details of his kidnapping, so she knew exactly what she was doing and what affect her actions would have on him. This is supposed to make me feel safe? he asked himself, trying to keep his rising panic under control. She moved to stand in front of him again.

"You told me that you were initially bound during your kidnapping," she said softly. "What were you bound with?"

"I don't really know, my hands were behind my back," he said, his voice low and his throat dry. "Whatever it was, it was very strong and thin, and hard."

"Hmm, probably a zip-strip," she mused expertly.

Returning to her 'toy chest', she dug around for a moment, before moving back to the bed with a long, white strip of plastic. She held it out for him to see.

"Was it something like this?" she asked.

"Could be," he whispered.

Heather cupped one hand along his strong jaw. "You don't have to do this and we can stop at any time. You say the word and everything stops."

She looked beautiful and unearthly in the dim, eerie, green light, like some fierce, pagan goddess. Nick felt himself trapped in the darkness of her unwavering gaze. He nodded his acceptance to her and she reached down and grasped the hem of his dark blue t-shirt, pulling it up over his head. He accommodated this action by raising his arms. Now shirtless and feeling very vulnerable, he took a deep breath and tried to will his racing heart to slow. Shifting his body away from her, he placed his hands together behind his back.

He flinched involuntarily at the slight growling sound of the strip 'zipping' tight around his wrists. His mind was suddenly transported back to the SUV, having just woken up to find himself bound, disoriented, and at the mercy of an unknown attacker. He felt his panic abruptly surge. And then he felt Heather's hands pressing against his back, cool and comforting on his suddenly overheated skin.

She moved around to sit in front of him and placed her hands on either side of his neck, gazing deeply into his eyes and grounding him, keeping the panic at bay. He took a couple of deep breaths, forcing his erratic breathing back to normal and concentrating solely on Heather's eyes.

As she returned his stare, she saw the unconditional trust in his dark eyes. He was trusting her not to hurt him. She needed to trust herself not to as well. This was not Johan Sneller, the last man she had been with, and the man who had tortured and murdered her daughter. This was Nick Stokes, one of the people who had helped to bring Sneller to justice, but also one of the most gentle and empathetic men she had ever known. Hurting him now, at this point, would be the worst act of betrayal on her part.

Realizing that her own hands were trembling slightly with the weight of her responsibility, she drew him closer, sliding one hand into his hair and the other down the warm, bare skin of his back. Pressing tightly against him, she could actually feel his heart beating against her own chest. As their eager mouths met, she could taste the desperation on his lips and it was like a drug to her.

She wanted more. She wanted to press him down on the bed, climb on top and devour him alive. As she continued to feed hungrily on his lips, she found her fingernails unconsciously digging into his flesh. The soft whimper from deep in his throat brought her back to reality and reluctantly, she released him.

Sitting back to look at him, she saw that he was breathing just as heavily as she was and his pupils were dilated, making them appear huge and black in the dim light. He looked excited, slightly dazed, and more than a little frightened, quite a heady combination for the dominatrix. She felt a tightening in her body and anticipation prickled along her skin. It had been a very long time since she'd felt this turned on.

She wanted Nick Stokes and she wanted him badly. She could see immediately that, as alluring as his current bound state was, having his hands behind his back was going to prove inconvenient for her future plans. And the zip-strip would not be the most ideal restraint either. She would have to make adjustments. But that was all right, she was good at rolling with the punches and she'd already successfully triggered the correct mental associations for him.

Leaving Nick, she went again to her toy chest. Locating what she was looking for quickly, she returned to his side, bearing a pair of police-issue handcuffs. It took her longer to locate a pair of scissors with which to cut the zip-strip off and when she had done so, she saw that she'd been a little overenthusiastic in zipping them tight. Nick's wrists already bore matching red stripes from where the plastic had bit into his skin. She brought his hands up to her lips and tenderly kissed the red chafe marks and soothed them with her cool fingertips.

With a last kiss on each palm, she gave him her soft command, "Lie down."

To her immense pleasure, he obeyed without question or complaint, stretching out on the bed beside her. The headboard of her bed had been specially designed by Heather and meticulously crafted by one of her former clients, who was a master carpenter. It had several small, metal rings and clasps, which each had its own slot, so they could lie flush against the carved wood when not in use, thus allowing the bed to look quite 'normal' most of the time.

Taking his wrists, she brought them over his head. She attached the short chain of the handcuffs to one of the clasps of the headboard then snapped the cuffs around Nick's wrists, binding him to the bed.

Moving to sit at the foot of the bed, she began to untie Nick's boots. Removing them and his socks, she rubbed his feet for a few minutes, trying to help him relax. When he'd closed his eyes and the taut lines of his body had loosened some, she knew she could proceed to the next level. Scooting further up the bed, she began on his jeans. His eyes flew open again, but much of the wariness in them was gone and he seemed more curious than anxious.

Unbuckling the belt and unbuttoning the fly, she folded the front of his pants back to reveal a pair of black boxer shorts with a white skull and crossed bone pattern on it. She looked up at him with one eyebrow arched inquiringly. He gave her a sheepish grin, but said nothing.

"Hmm, shall we hoist the Jolly Roger?" she asked softly, a slight purr to her low voice. "Prepare to be boarded, Matey."

Without allowing him time to respond, she grasped the top of his pants and yanked them down, boxers and all, off his narrow hips. Tossing the jeans onto the floor, she stepped back from the bed and stood for a moment, admiring her handiwork. Seeing him stretched out, naked and at her mercy, while she was still fully clothed gave her a feeling of power. She ran one hand lightly along his nearest thigh, up and over his hip, and across the flat plane of his stomach.

Gazing down at the abundance of golden skin before her, she felt like an artist looking at a blank canvas. She had an incredible urge to decorate that smooth, beautiful skin with a lovely pattern of bright red stripes. She forced this desire down. Nick would not enjoy that... yet, and this was about him, making him feel safe and giving him pleasure. But there were plenty of other things she could do to him that she was certain he would enjoy.

Climbing onto the bed, she straddled his thighs, placed her hands on either side of his chest and leaned over him, her lips hovering millimeters above his. Their eyes were locked and she could feel his quick, warm breaths brushing her lips like the ghosts of kisses. Moving her mouth lower, she pressed it against his neck and she could feel his rapid pulse beating against her lips.

Continuing to move lower, she very, very slowly kissed, sucked and nibbled her way downward, across his smooth chest, to lavish attentions on his small nipples, each in turn, and down to his stomach. By the time she reached his hips, she had him literally writhing in delicious agony. His breathing was coming in shallow pants and he was making the most incredible, soft whimpering sounds. Those sounds alone were enough to further excite Heather, but she wasn't quite finished torturing him yet.

Deliberately avoiding the center of his heated agony, she kissed her way down his left hip, 'accidentally' grazing her teeth over a slightly prominent pelvic bone. Continuing down to his legs, she took her time with the strong inner thighs before moving on to the back of the knees.

After having thoroughly kissed and primed his body for the next step, she once again took up her previous position, straddling his legs. Once again, capturing his eyes with hers, she made a deliberate show of slipping the black silk robe off her shoulders and tossing away. With equally slow movements, she drew the camisole over her head and it joined the other clothes on the floor.

Topless now, she sat for a moment, just gazing down at her prize, while he gazed up at her. She saw his hands unconsciously clenching and unclenching. Oh, how he wanted to touch her, she realized, with a deliciously little thrill, but not quite yet.

Climbing off the bed, she slowly untied the drawstring of her pants and eased them off her hips. She let them drop to the floor, to pool around her bare feet and stepped out of them, to stand gloriously naked before him. She picked up the key from the nightstand and leaned over to unlock his handcuffs.

She was surprised by his quickness and by the strength of his deceptively slender build, as he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her up and over onto the bed beside him. Before she had even realized what he'd done, he was half-draped across her body, pinning her to the bed. For a brief second, she saw a wild, animal need flit through his eyes, which awoke a tiny thrill of something close to fear in the pit of her stomach, but then it was gone, leaving her even more excited.

"May I?" he whispered, his voice thick with his desire.

Oh, could this man possibly be any more perfect? she thought to herself.

"You may," she purred.

Despite her teasing and the urgency of his need, their lovemaking was as beautiful and gentle as she had imagined it would be. Nick Stokes was probably incapable of physically hurting a woman in most situations, but certainly in an intimate situation such as this. He was attentive to her needs, but just forceful enough to let her remember that he had needs of his own.

For Nick, Heather's plan seemed to have worked perfectly. He had forgotten all about the green glowsticks, all about Walter Gordon and the abduction. Nick's mind was focused solely on the beautiful woman in his arms and the perfection and pleasure of this moment. Nothing else existed, only he and Heather.

For Heather, it was a release of long pent-up emotions, grief, desire, sexual frustration, and yes, even her anger. At the climax, she was surprised to find that there were tears in her eyes. Afterward, they lay for a long time in silence, simply holding each other and lost in their own thoughts.

"That was amazing, thank you," Nick said softly, at last breaking the long silence.

"Yes, it was. I suppose I should thank you as well."

He leaned close to kiss her, but was distracted by the sound of scratching at the closed door and a forlorn-sounding mew. They both laughed.

"Well, I think someone's feeling a little left out."

Slipping out of the bed, he padded to the door and opened it. Pandora immediately darted inside and ran straight to the bed. She was already firmly ensconced in the middle of the bed by the time he climbed back in. He found it amazing that such a tiny cat could take up so much room, in such a large bed. Eventually he and Heather fell asleep, spooned up together, with the cat between them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The late afternoon sky was a vibrant turquoise, unmarred by even the faintest trace of cloud. A pleasant breeze lifted stray strands of Heather's loose hair as she sat in a wicker chair in the shade of her front porch, sipping tart lemonade and watching the black SUV as it pulled into her small parking lot. She watched as the man climbed out of the vehicle and approached her somewhat apprehensively.

"Good afternoon, Heather," Gil said. "May I join you?"

"You may," she responded, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of the small, round table. "Would you like some lemonade? Although I warn you, it's not very sweet."

"Oh, that's alright, I like my lemonade tart," he said, seating himself across from her.

Reaching for the antique, pale green, Depression-ware pitcher on the table, she filled the matching, empty glass beside it and handed it to the entomologist. He accepted the glass with a smile of thanks and the two sipped in silence for a few minutes.

"It's quite a lovely afternoon," Gil commented.

"Yes, it is. I've always loved this time of day. It's not as hot and there's a pleasant laziness in the air as the afternoon fades into evening."

"Heather, I... I wanted to stop by on my way in to work, to say that I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"I'm not exactly sure, but I know that you were angry with me. I just wanted to make sure that we've moved past that. I do value your friendship."

"Yes, I was angry with you for a time, but I have moved past it. You have no need to apologize."

"I'm glad. You seem more at ease. I'm glad to see that you're coming to terms with your loss."

"Yes, I am, but I've had help."

"Really? Well, I'm glad."

They both returned to their lemonade and the silence fell between them once more. It was broken by the sound of the front door opening. Nick stepped out onto the porch and turned toward the couple at the wicker table.

"Oh, hey Gris, I didn't know you were here," the Texan said in some surprise.

"I haven't been here long. Heather and I were just chatting," Grissom said, his voice carefully neutral.

"Oh, well, I was just about to head in to work." Nick walked around the table to give Heather a chaste kiss on the forehead. "I'll see you later," he said to her.

"Yes, later," she said with a fond smile and a smoldering gaze.

"Well, I'll see you in a few," Nick said to the entomologist as he passed by, on his way toward the steps of the porch.

Grissom nodded and watched as the younger man walked toward his own SUV, which the supervisor had failed to notice earlier. Several questions flitted through Gil's mind as he watched the Texan climb into the vehicle, but he kept them to himself. After all, if, as Heather had pointed out, Gil had forfeited the right to give her advice, he had most certainly forfeited the right to ask about her love life. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to his lemonade. Glancing over, he saw Heather watching him with a mysterious, little smile.

THE END

A/N: Okay, I'm sorry that took so long to get posted, but I haven't been feeling well and it's rather difficult to write a hot love scene when you're feeling like crap : ). Anyway, thanks to everyone who read and reviewed and anyone who read and didn't review!


End file.
